


Oddly Charming

by Herbrarian



Series: New Orders [10]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alliances, Backstory, Developing Relationship, F/M, Grey Wardens, Haven (Dragon Age), Mage-Templar War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-16 14:12:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9275600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herbrarian/pseuds/Herbrarian
Summary: Previously: There is nothing like a Grey Warden and Blackwall surprises as he creates new relationships within the Inquisition and supports the work of the Herald. There is work to be done, and Thom finds himself drawn to the woman at the center of it all.





	1. Chapter 1

Varric stands next to the forge, watching Harrit do the final temper of the parts for the new stock for Bianca. Gidget is all right, he thinks to himself. He hadn’t expected her to be his best friend; Varric wasn’t one to falsely expect something there. Hawke still holds all of his loyalties all these years later, even if she did almost let his whole damn city blow up. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t cause some shit there, too. Once again it seems he has secured himself a place at the center of the world, otherwise known as a premier seat for a colossal shit storm.

So when Dorothea had taken Blackwall, the Seeker, and Solas with her into the field this last time, completely overlooking Varric’s . . . skills, well . . . Varric could read a brush off as easily as the next person. But, the fortunate thing about being at the center of the world was that, brush off or no, there were deals to be realized, coin to be traded, and influence to be built. So he made good use of the time, and wrote a little, too; all in all, a productive few weeks.

Varric edges slightly closer to the forge fires. His new boots arrived with last week’s shipment from Highever and now that he could _feel_ his toes again, he had every intention of making sure they stayed on his feet and the right color. He rubs his chin as he thinks of the poor bastards who lost limbs after the explosion: soldiers mired in the endless days of fighting with nothing better at the off duty shifts then a damp tent in a snow-filled field of demons. At least if he had to get dragged all this way by the Seeker, she’d kept him close to her in the four walls of the Chantry as they assessed the magnitude of the disaster. Chantries were notably not snow-filled, even if occasionally they were demon-filled.

“Looks like we’re somewhere between arse-deep in demons and balls-deep in heresy.”

“Excuse me?” a deep voice comes from behind his shoulder. Varric startles; he hadn’t realized that he’d spoken aloud or that the Warden had walked toward the forge fire.

“Just working out something for a book,” Varric blusters, embarrassed to have been caught unawares and observed. Blight, he didn’t even heard the man approach . . . but it is loud in the forge. “How are you settling in, Hero?”

The Warden looks at Varric with a grimace and stokes his beard with his hand. “Ah, I’ve read you have a liking for nicknames.”

“Read? Me? I’m flattered to come to the attention of a Warden. Well,” Varric flashes a brilliant smile and hooks his thumb behind his belt, “at least a Warden that isn’t trying to blow up my city, that is.”

“Ah, yes, Anders; bad business, that.”

“Yeah,” Varric drawls, feeling slightly non-plussed at the Warden’s statement. Varric baits the Warden: “Of course, we have nothing on blowing up a sacred site or taking out the Divine—and most of the Chantry hierarchy—but we figure even a Qunari invasion can’t compete with the Fifth Blight, so we’ll just try to keep our hand in in our own, modest way.”

There has been a startling lack of Wardens since the Inquisition began to settle into Haven. Varric knows that the Throne of Ferelden has been startlingly silent, as have Amaranthine and Weisshaupt. That could mean there isn’t an Archdemon in sight . . . or there is one they just have yet to see. Blackwall is unhelpfully mute on the whereabouts of any Wardens. After Anders (and the fucking way the Maker-damned King of Ferelden just _shows_ up in the Free Marches one day), Varric is less than impressed with the Warden’s communication network. Andraste knows they could use some tips from the Charta.

“Right,” the Warden replies, watching the apprentice in front of him sew plate to a quilted shirt.

Varric sighs, tries again. “But how are you settling into Haven? I was surprised you took lodging all the way out here.” Varric gestures to the small houses by the forge which serve as barracks for the armorers, fletchers, and forgers out of whom Harrit is trying to coax armaments to outfit an army.

“I’m used to living rough. A bedroll not on the ground is enough for me. I understand the Ambassador is filling up every bed she can use; I am happy to stay out of the way in favor of,” the man hesitates, “more influential guests.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I think Dorothea might always find room for you, Hero.”

The Warden coughs, eyes wide, and returns, “Maker’s Balls, what the hell are you on about?”

Varric laughs. “You mean you haven’t noticed the way she keeps wandering this way? I assure you, before you showed up, she had not shown much interest in the forge or Harrit’s offer to make armor. Now you can’t get her out of here.” The Warden blushes above the rug on his face that passes for a beard and makes a dismissive growl in his throat. It reminds Varric of the Seeker and he grins harder.

The Warden stands with his arms crossed in front of his chest, shifting from foot to foot. “Why are you down here?” he asks Varric. “What are you looking for?”

“Bianca,” Varric says, pointing to where Harrit is studying a schematic and looking at the pieces of the crossbow laid out on a table. “We were in Val Royeaux a few weeks back and I got my hands on a new crossbow design schematic. Harrit is seeing if he can adapt it to Bianca. I’m a bit touchy about her so, where she goes, I go.”

The Warden eyes him skeptically, “Do you think Harrit works better being watched?” he asks.

“No, not exactly,” Varric crosses his arms and rests back on his heels, “but there’s more than one acquaintance of mine in the Charta that would take her off my hands if they had the chance. I prefer to keep her within my sights.”

“Is it that valuable?” the Warden asks.

“She’s one of a kind, Hero, much like you, it seems.”

“Ah, yes,” Blackwall shifts uncomfortably and Varric rolls his eyes slightly out of the man’s gaze. If the Nightingale can’t get more about the man’s past, the Warden will just have to remain a man of mystery a bit longer.

Still, Varric is curious . . .

Varric slides slightly closer to the Warden and leans in slightly, his eyes on Harrit’s tinkering as he asks in a low tone: “So, Templars or Mages?”

“Excuse me?” the man retorts.

“Perhaps you’d prefer to discuss your favorite demon or darkspawn; speculate on if there is an Archdemon at the end of the rainbow; or we could just talk about the bloody big hole in the sky, or maybe the one in our leader’s hand?” Blackwall stares at him aghast and seemingly unable to articulate a response. “But it seems like an easier conversation starter may be the question of the hour that is on everyone’s tongue: go after the soldier boys and girls or sparkly boys and girls. Who gets to save Thedas this time? Since we seem to be fresh out of Wardens this time around.”

“Ah, right, or Champions,” Blackwall cuts, “Well, I try to stay out of such things, but” Blackwall rushes on as Varric opens his mouth to keep talking, “it will be the mages, won’t it? The Herald will go to what she knows, what she trusts.”

Varric grunts in acknowledgement. He is surprised that the Warden isn’t more amenable to the largest fighting force in Thedas: “You surprise me, Hero.”

Blackwall returns, his voice matter of fact. “The Chantry’s made plenty of mistakes and it got us here, so maybe it’s time to try something else.”

“I’d be careful how loud you say that, the Seeker might take your head off.” The Warden shifts awkwardly again from one foot to another, itching to bolt and run as if he expects to see the Seeker pop around the corner at any moment. “I just assumed you’d be more interested in a well-trained, disciplined fighting force.”

“I think I’m interested, Master Tethras, in whatever the Lady Herald says we should do,” Blackwall returns curtly. “If you’ll excuse me, I wanted to talk to Master Dennet about Redcliffe.” And without a further word, the Warden walks off.

Varric sighs quietly to himself. He probably shouldn’t have antagonized the man, but he wanted some sense of if the Warden would stand behind Dorothea if she goes to the mages.

 _If he’s scoping out information on Redcliffe, he’s probably in_.

Dorothea is only a kid and she has a hard enough time without everyone second guessing her calls. Varric can’t help but think of Hawke. It had been difficult for Heilige, having to assert herself every step of the way; it had never helped that her uncle was a first-class asshole who bartered the family into servitude. Varric chuckles to himself. Of course, Hawke had survived all that and still saved the City—and him—twice. It’s a small thing to stay with the Inquisition to keep Heilige and Fenris away from the Chantry.

It had only made sense initially to make sure Dorothea could close the Breach before he left, otherwise the Seeker might get distracted and look for Hawke all over again.

Just a few more months, Varric thinks, and he can go home, stop watching the world blow up, fix his city, write a shit ton of books off of this, and let Hawke know it was safe to come home.


	2. Chapter 2

Thom stands at the fence rail, regarding the destriers that have just been brought into Dennet and his stable lads. A few days before he and Dennet had struck up a conversation about the Orlesian stock coming in—a gift from the House DuRellion who apparently “owned” Haven in a typically Orlesian fashion—and Thom had revealed that as a lad he’d worked a city stable in Markham and helped break horses when he’d been in the army. Thom had stopped short when he’d let that detail slip; but since he didn’t have four legs, Thom suspects Dennet won’t remember the conversation in any great detail.

“Blackwall! Come help us with this one!” Dennet calls when he sees Thom standing at the rail. Thom signals his assent and climbs through the fence slots. Once Dennet heard Thom had some experience with horses new to the bit, the horse master had been overjoyed to have him come along once the stock arrived.

Thom carefully approaches, watching Dennet’s subtle hand gesture as to which direction to circle around. “Blackwall, help Sam there.” Dennet croons the words, his eyes not breaking from contact with the stud he is trying to lead away from the pack of mares.

As Thom passes the beast’s haunches, he admires the girth of his hindquarters. The creature will make beautiful foals.

Thom sets about helping Sam and his assistant, Angelik, lead the mares to stalls. Angelik is a dwarf who recently joined them, travelling from Highever with the Inquisition’s scouting party fresh in from the Storm Coast. A merc had travelled in with them, Cremisius or some such. Thom spoke with the man briefly, but had bristled and quit the conversation when he heard what part of the Storm Coast he had just left.

Thom’s attention snaps back to the task at hand when the mare he leads nips at his shoulder.   He turns to eye the mare; her eyes roll and dart around her. She trembles lightly. Sensing she is too nervous to be near the other animals, Thom leads her away from the commotion by the stables to a corner of the yard that is quieter. He firmly and gently strokes his hand down her face, stopping just short of her muzzle and then repeats the action. He drones to her, “there girl, you’re home,” repeating the words over and over, murmuring them into a rhythmic lull. The mare stops stomping her feet, although her eyes continue to dart and roll. A motion catches Thom’s eye and he sees Dennet approach.

“Ah, what do we have here?” Dennet speaks softly, one hand on her neck, palming an apple in the other for the animal. As the mare accepts it Dennet moves his hands along the animal’s flank, curving to the round of her belly, finally resting them on the rump of the mare. “Well, it looks as if that stud will be worth the coin; she’s already heavy, maybe next Spring.”

Thom's gaze, however, looks over Dennet’s head to the lone figure standing at the railing. It is the Lady Herald and at the sight of Thom’s glance, she lifts a hand in greeting. Thom expects her to then turn, be about her business that has brought her near the stable yard. Instead, she has every sign of settling in to watch them. Thom clears his throat as he realizes Dennet has been speaking to him: “Pardon?” he asks gruffly.

“Let her go, Blackwall, make sure the yard is clear, and step back beyond the fence,” Dennet croons. As he’s spoken, the older man has taken possession of the mare who, sensing some change, has become restless again. Thom hesitates for the barest of moments, remembers this man was leading a Royal Stables when Thom was still in short pants, and he turns and sweeps around the yard, signaling the men holding the stud to leave him and clear the yard.

No longer kept by his restrainers, the stud begins to circle the yard, at first at a canter, and then sprinting to a run, and then back to a canter; the animal is agitated and wary. Thom watches Dennet lead the mare to the center of the yard with eyes apparently only for the mare.

“What the hell is he doing?” Thom says in a loud whisper to himself and feels a firm, small hand on his arm, hears a gentle shush. The intent of the grip is reminiscent of his own on the mare and he looks over to see the Herald. She has moved quietly next to him, but her eyes watch Dennet. Thom stares down at her. His breath in his mouth goes shallow as he takes in the curve of her delicate fingers around his bicep, the unspoken air of possession. Sensing his regard, she gestures, “Look—” and her gaze returns to the yard. Her hand doesn’t move off his arm, however. Reluctantly, Thom pulls his attention to Dennet.

The stud continues to circle, narrowing in on the center of the yard. Once, twice, thrice the male turns. Thom catches the scent of the mare on the breeze; the stud moves to a canter and darts in to nuzzle the mare’s neck. Dennet palms another apple for the mare and, catching the scent of the fruit, the stud nudges assertively into Dennet’s hand. Thom can hear the horse master croon to them both, one hand holding the mare’s bridle, the other stroking the muzzle on the stud.

At some indecipherable signal, Dennet smoothly backs away and comes alongside of the stud. The horse master pats the horse’s flank and motions for a blanket. He places it on the animal and takes a strap from Paulsen, too. Working quickly but with gentle hands, Dennet secures both around the stud and then steps back just as the animal begins to thrash to try to throw it off. Dennet turns to the mare and begins moving her in a trot by the bridle around the perimeter of the yard.

Thom watches fascinated as the stud eventually stills, catches again the scent of the mare as she circles the yard. After several fraught moments the stud pulls out of his thrashing and moves toward the mare to run with her. Dennet falls back and climbs onto the railing. All the people in the yard watch as the two animals spin themselves out and slow, eventually moving to the water trough where one of the hands pumps fresh water to catch the horses’ attention.

As the horses dip to drink, Dorothea laughs lightly: “Maker, I never get tired of watching him do that.”

Thom breathes deeply at the joyful sound of her pleasure. “Have you seen this often, My Lady?”

“Oh, Blackwall, just a handful of times, but it makes me think of home.”

“Does your family know horses, My Lady?”

“My grandfather was the horse master. Our family primarily has trade interests, mercantile goods in and out of Ostwick. But we’ve always kept horses. My grandfather’s stable was known throughout the eastern Free Marches.” She answers, watching the motion in the yard.

Thom freezes. A cold sweat breaks out on his forehead. He has not yet heard the Herald’s family name, nor had he realized that she hailed from the Free Marches. Calling on every tool he’s ever learned in the Game, he asks guardedly: “Your family estates are in the Marches, My Lady?” Thom prays to the Bride that she doesn’t notice anything in his demeanor.

“Oh, yes,” she answers, moving her hand away from his arm, looking off toward the Breach, “I am a Trevelyan of Ostwick, although,” she hesitates. Thom’s tension is high and he presses before he can help it.

“My Lady?”

“Oh,” and she turns, smiles, a faraway look in her eyes as if she is just now focusing on him, “I suppose I should say of Ostwick Circle, but . . . we don’t know if it still stands. Leliana gave me word yesterday that we’ve lost all contact with them. The militia came out after the Breach erupted,” he watches her worry her tongue over her teeth behind her lips. It hardens the set of her jaw and draws his eye to the sweep of bone up to her ear. The skin which covers it is creamy like a bowl of fresh milk left to sit for the cats.

“But you are still of Ostwick, My Lady,” he murmurs.

She shakes her head as if to clear it, and it turns into a nod: “Yes, I suppose I am at that.” She looks up at him, her smile warm and her eyes kind and soft. “Do you have some time? I was wanting to take a walk into the valley; I realize you may not have had a chance to explore very far toward the Breach yet. The Commander keeps it locked down tightly. But, one of the few perks of this,” and she raises her hand, the glove on it hiding the Mark from view, “is it doesn’t make sense not to let me wander around where there are rifts.”

He chuckles, bemused by her macabre sense of humor. “Let me retrieve my sword and shield, My Lady. I can meet you by the bridge?”

“Yes, let us say in twenty minutes? I’ll grab a few things for the walk.” She smiles and turns from him, walking over to Dennet. Thom watches her shake his hand and smile animatedly, gesturing to the two horses that are now being led into the stables. As she finishes and turns to go, she shifts her head and catches Thom still staring at her. She stops slightly, concern starting on her features, and then she smiles slowly as her eyelids drop slightly and her lips purse into a slight pout. She turns and walks to the village gates, hips swinging as she saunters. Thom watches her until she is out of sight, and then blushes, clears his throat, and casts his gaze about to ensure that no one saw him ogling the Herald of Andraste.


	3. Chapter 3

Dorothea accepts the sack from Flissa, smiling at the bar maid.

“Here you are, Herald, there is a nice bit of dried sausage and some fresh Verchiel cheese, it just came in. I’ve also put in a nice milk stout I just got in from Lothering. It’s very pleasant and should carry well.” Flissa grins from ear to ear, as rapt as Dorothea, herself, that she is sneaking off for a picnic with the Grey Warden. “Oh, do convince him to tell you stories about the Deep Roads; I can never get Varric to talk about them and Leliana always insists she’s never been there. I think it would be terribly interesting to see the ancient places the dwarves made out of the rock and to think about the history; but, oh!” Flissa claps her hand to her mouth, “Maker bless you, Herald, I’m rambling!” and Flissa blushes crimson. “Is there anything else I can do?”

Dorothea laughs, delight rolling out of her. “No, Flissa; this is perfect. Thank you.” She leans across the bar, “I’ll let you know how it goes.” And Dorothea turns to leave, casting a wave over her shoulder, picks up her staff from by the bar, and exits the tavern. Her steps are light and she greets Varric as she passes his normal place. He stares at her, returning her wave, a long smile on his face as he watches her disappear down the steps and out of sight.

She moves past the training grounds where Cassandra is busy working the recent arrivals from the Fallow Mire. Thankfully the Seeker is engrossed in her task and doesn’t notice her skip past. The council this afternoon had been a brutal affair with the Seeker in a fine temper. The five of them had taken to meeting in the afternoon to discuss only whether to approach the Mages or the Templars, separating the discussion from their other concerns. Meetings where they tried to discuss the alliance and other operations always ended in arguments, unfinished business, and sharp words. At least when they divided up the meeting, the operational work got done.

Dorothea had felt a small pang of sympathy for the Commander today, too. Unexpected, and ultimately inconsequential, Cassandra kept glaring at him across the table, almost growling in response to all of his questions, her voice low and menacing. On her way out of the room, Dorothea had overheard the Seeker order the Commander to paperwork for the afternoon. Dorothea had been so annoyed by the Seeker’s overbearing nature that she almost told the woman off then and there. But Leliana came up behind her and diverted her with questions about their Avvar ally and when Dorothea could look around again, the Seeker and the Commander were gone.

She passes the stable and casts a wave to one of the lads, Henrik. The council meeting had been remarkably short and Dorothea was excited to get to see the Orlesian destriers come in. She had not expected to see Blackwall in the middle of them, working with the horses. The Warden continues to be a revelation of surprises for her. She was grateful he wanted to join. Having another military opinion to talk through the Seeker’s and Commander’s decisions was precisely what she needed. But he was more than just a gruff, focused warrior: she found herself taken with the Grey Warden.

Intoxicated on her own happiness she turns down the dirt lane toward the bridge to the valley, the sound of the anvil falling behind her. Dorothea has never felt this free. Life in the Circle was rigid and prescribed. That she is headed out on a walk and a picnic and she hasn’t had to ask anyone: she sighs with the large feeling of light in her chest.

_This must be what it is to feel giddy._

She laughs to herself. ‘Save the Fucking World if Pressed’; it is the most honest and refreshing thing she has heard in several weeks. She has never met a Grey Warden before. Heroes from legend, she expected some sort of Templar whose religion was the Blight.

But he is not.

He is gruff, but not acerbic with a kindness and a spark of warmth in his eyes. He listens to her readily, drinking in what she says, but not sparing her if he disagrees. He is confident on the battlefield, his movements supple and deadly. He is exactly what a hero of legend should be.

More though, she needed a warrior whose view is as pragmatic as hers. He had said it just last week: they must right the chaos that surrounds them at every turn. It is more than the Breach—although Maker knows that is enough—liege lords are abandoning their charges, bandits rule the roads, crops lie fallow in fields. If the Breach doesn’t kill them all, surely starvation and lawlessness will. She admires the way Blackwall has been on his own, quietly trying to quell the darkness he isn’t responsible for, all by himself . . .

_Saving the fucking world._

She is still smiling to herself when she approaches the bridge and finds Blackwall waiting for her. The sound of her chuckle raises the man’s eyes to her face with a questioning look. “Something funny, My Lady?” he asks.

She smiles, large and full, at him and returns, “Just thinking about saving the world.”

“If that’s on our tasks for the day, I’ll need to change my shoes,” he smiles, his eyes twinkling with merriment as he teases her. The look he gives her is so utterly . . . _fond_. There is a reverence and an emotion in his gaze: Dorothea has never felt this from anyone before, but she likes it.


	4. Chapter 4

“Can I take that, My Lady?” Blackwall gestures to her pack that holds the sack from Flissa.

She smiles at the simple gesture of care and hands it over with a nod and a murmured, “Thank you.” Once he has it, they cross to the bridge’s edge. She waves at the current guards and they snap a salute; Blackwall returns the salute with a formal tilt of his head, acknowledging the sign of respect from the younger soldiers. It makes her smile; there is nothing imperious in his manner when he does it, it is simply because he commands respect.

Once on the other side, they fall easily into step. She guides them along the road for a ways, moving toward the valley. “All of this was filled with wraiths; after Cassandra brought me out this way, I got my first good glimpse of the Breach, there” they turn a corner in the path and she points, “it was swirling and streaking out across the sky, with a ribbon of the Fade twining down to the Temple . . . or where the Temple was.”

Blackwall regards the view: the vibrant thrum of green in the sky, twisting in an ever revolving vortex of energy and the Veil. “Did you remember anything when you came out?”

She stands quietly looking at it next to him; “No,” she gestures and begins to climb further on the path, “I still don’t. I remember bits of my morning that day, I had been with my delegation and then had a meeting in the Temple. I think I got there, but I don’t remember much until I woke up in the Chantry in chains.” She looks down on the ground, watching her footing as they come to the bridge that is missing. Blackwall slings his shield to his back, puts the pack on the edge, and then jumps the 15 feet down to the rocks. He lands at the edge of the water; Dorothea remembers that this lake was frozen over the last time she was here. He smiles up at her, takes the pack from her hand and her staff, and then turns to look up at her. She smiles down at him and reaches out a hand to his, intending to use it steady herself so she can jump down. But Blackwall surprises her, reaches beyond her hand to her waist, gestures for her to fall into him. She slides her hands along his biceps and slips forward, feeling his hands press into the narrow dip of her waist.

His fingers are warm through her tunic and leathers, and she feels his shoulders tense and firm as he takes her weight onto his stance. Casually, he lowers her down to the edge of the water he stands in, careful to keep her boots out of the shallows. When her feet touch the pebbles of the shore, she stands a few inches taller than normal, and she considers the depths of his coal-black eyes. She lifts her left hand slowly to caress the beard along his jaw, but he arrests her motion, captures her hand with his own, and lifts her knuckles to his lips. “My Lady,” he husks, then he hands her her staff, re-shoulders the pack, and awaits her to take the lead.

Dorothea smiles and turns. She is not sure what just passed, but her mind spins to try to figure out how to get it to happen again. His voice breaks into her reverie as they fall into step again, side by side, down the path leading further into the valley, “Did you come to represent your Circle, or the City-State?”

She snaps to, blushes when she realizes she has been silently considering the prickle of the hair from his upper lip on her hand, wondering what the bristles of the hair in his beard would feel like under her fingers, imagining the feeling of it between her lips as she mouthed kisses into his jaw: “My Circle, of course, the governors would never have stood for a mage to represent them,” she snaps the answer, embarrassed.

He returns, “But you are gently born . . . ?” and the question is in the air, soft, an invitation to tell more about her; if he has noticed her harsh tone, he has chosen not to note it.

Grateful, Dorothea fills the gap, “Yes, I am the sole daughter of Bann Xavier Trevelyan, but I have three brothers, one who is nearly fifteen years my senior, my father’s first wife died in childbed,” she explains when she sees Blackwall’s head shift a questioning gaze to her. “It is said my father barely noticed her passing; theirs was a marriage of position and opportunity. My mother and father, though, were a marriage of love and desire.”

She leaves unsaid that her mother was simply a servant—a seamstress—hired to assist her father’s tailor. A sturdy, voluptuous brunette in her youth, her mother had aged into a beautiful, radiant woman who adored her father and made for them all a warm, safe home, including her step-brother. Her mother had doted on her, this lone girl child, helping her navigate the frightful formality and expectations of her father’s mother, an Orlesian heiress of a long blood line who had been the fourth daughter and thus sent to find a match across the Waking Sea. But Dorothea’s mother would do anything for her father, and that would come to include leaving her only daughter in a Circle Tower, cutoff from her family, from her new baby brother.

When she left for the Tower Dorothea could not have known that the first twelve years of her life had been the purest, warmest form of familial love; she also could not have fathomed the crushing weight of its absence once she was locked in a Tower.

“What of yourself?” She asks as they climb over a ridge, “We found you in Ferelden, but I do not think you grew up amongst the Dog Lords.” He laughs out loud, a slap of a sound that rings in her ear as a delight.

He rubs his hand along his jaw, chuckling, a smile lingering, “No, My Lady, I am not from Ferelden, I came out of Orlais many years ago to Ferelden, originally to the coast.”

“Where from in Orlais?” she asks.

“Truthfully, I was all over. I was a career soldier before I came to the Wardens; I lived in Val Royeaux for most of my time, but I would find myself stationed in various places, mainly in the south, although I’ve travelled north, too.”

His tone is still warm, but Dorothea senses a guard in his demeanor. She is no stranger to Warden tales—they had been some of her favorites in the Tower—and she knows that many leave behind some crime in their past, putting it aside to answer a calling to be saviors and champions. She doesn’t want Blackwall to believe she is prying, so she offers in exchange: “My grandmother, my father’s mother, was from Orlais, from Val Foret. She came to Ostwick as a young bride, although, if truth is to be told, she wasn’t that young,” she says, a sparkle in her eye as she catches Blackwall’s gaze, a smile on her lips as wide as the Nahashin River. “My grandmother had been promised to the Chantry, served as a Lay Sister, and was positioned to take Orders.”

“What happened?” he asks, curiosity in his tone.

“My grandfather; I mentioned he kept a fine stable, but he was also a very shrewd trader. He had a large stock of Rivaini _Asaarash_ ; he had brought in a stud and several mares, so the story goes, and set them up to breed. Their descendants were still alive when I was a girl: beautiful animals. Well, the Emperor wanted a team of four. So my grandmother’s father—he was influential at court—approached my grandfather to find his price: the price was my grandmother’s hand and her dowry.”

Blackwall hums his approval at the turn of events in her story, poses a question: “She would not have had one, would she? The Chantry would have already have had it, I would think?”

Dorothea laughs, delighted: “Yes! You see it; most people forget that part. Absolutely, my great-grandfather had already given her to the Chantry, but it was for the Emperor, so . . . the story goes the Emperor himself fronted the coin, and the linens in her trousseau were from the Cathedral in Val Royeaux.”

Blackwall laughs that bark of sound again and then descends into a chuckle vibrating out from his chest that makes her toes tingle. Dorothea swears to herself to spend her days finding ways to make this man make that sound. “That is quite a tale, My Lady.”

“It is,” she agrees simply and happily. “My grandmother was an expert at the Game; a good story, she would always say, was more than worth the cost of trouble to most people. If you could make the story interesting enough, she would tell me, then people would forgive you almost any transgression. They just want to believe and to be entertained.” She had not thought about her grandmother in years, burying the old woman in her mind with her mother, her father, her brothers when she went into the Tower; she hadn’t thought of her until the Conclave and meeting the Divine. “I often wondered how much of it was true. But it was her story, and you never argued with the G _roβherzog_.” Dorothea smiles in her memory of the older woman:  learning how to sit through tea, raps on knuckles for clinking spoons, sugary treats for appropriate small talk. The thoughts are a blistering swirl of childhood longing and comforts in the green face of eldritch responsibility.

“Wise words, My Lady. She must have been quite a woman.” Blackwall murmurs softly, sensing the turn in Dorothea’s mood. They continue on for a while, walking in relative silence. Occasionally, Dorothea points out a building or a charred spot where the ground struggles to recover from the gore of demon blood.

It is a comfortable walk. They have not had this time together before, this ability to walk without the press of Varric’s running chatter or Solas’s cryptic observations on the Fade. Finally, the trees begin to thicken as they leave the outlying settlements and the forest closes in around the path that will lead on to the Temple. She halts their progress, remembering meeting the Chancellor for the first time ahead on the bridge that lies before them. Beyond the rise and fall of the terrain, the ruins will be there. The Breach in the sky is an oppressive presence, choking; now that she is here, she doesn’t remember why it seemed so important to bring him along, even to come herself.

She turns and gestures to the pack in his hand, “I asked Flissa to pack a light meal, but it seems a bit silly now, doesn’t it?” she laughs at herself, self-conscious and uncomfortable.

“It is a fine idea, My Lady,” Blackwall says gently into the breeze that lifts the hair from the back of her neck. “It would be quite a view from the bridge; I assume it is still safe? Shall we cross?” She nods and motions for him to lead the way.

Remnants of the barricades that the Chantry soldiers and the Templars had erected the day of the explosion still litter the bridge. While the tent the Chancellor used is long gone, the make-shift table is still there. Blackwall crosses to it and sets down the pack. He stands and looks up into the sky toward the Breach.

“Maker’s Breath, it seems impossible that such a thing could be so large and not swallow the entire world,” he exhales softly, staring up at the sky. Dorothea moves and stands next to him, her arm just brushing his, and stares up to the Breach. “A holy ground turned into a battlefield, and you just walked out of the middle of it.” Blackwall’s voice is quiet, a slight quiver of awe in his tone. Dorothea blushes, his quiet intent filling her with a sense of hesitation.

She blusters: “Yes, I made quite the entrance, as the Commander pointed out.” She tries to laugh, but bites off the chuckle with a note of bitterness. She senses Blackwall’s head shift and his eyes move over her profile. His arm shifts and she feels him lift her hand into both of his, tracing the pads of his thumbs over her knuckles, smoothing the skin as if he could soothe the anger out of her. As she begins to breathe deeply, watching him lift her hand to his lips and lay a gentle kiss there, she realizes that perhaps he can.

“I know what it is to be angry, My Lady,” he says quietly, regarding her hand. “It will fuel you a great distance, but it will eventually carve a hollow out of your belly.” He pauses and the silence engulfs her, making her ears ring.

She snorts and turns away toward the table, starts to unpack the pack, “So I shouldn’t be so angry?” she sends over her shoulder. She is hurt by the Warden’s casual dismissal; of course she is angry. This whole Maker-damned mess has trapped her, enslaved her, and sentenced her to death all in one, blinding, terrifying moment, and all because she had been in the wrong place at the wrong moment. It is like facing her Harrowing all over again . . . every damn day she wakes up.

She moves without regard for how she appears and slams things down onto the timbers of the table. Dimly she becomes aware that Blackwall has come to stand near her, watching her movements. He waits in silence, waits until she willingly allows him to capture her attention. Then he says, “Dorothea, you can be as angry as you want to be. You can rage against the Maker, the Chantry, the Circles, and anything in between, and I will still walk by your side. I will follow you into the Breach and never regret a moment of my life that brought me here,” he hesitates, and then continues, “Just know, though, that I offer you my life and that I will be here when that rage empties you out and leaves you hollow, if you have need of me.”

Stunned, Dorothea looks into his face. Devotion and dedication stare back at her, unwavering. She takes a slight step toward him and pulls her hand into his, the Mark pushing its light into his palm. She sees him swallow reflexively and she leans into his cheek. As she brushes a kiss high on his cheekbone the hairs of his beard tickle her lip and she smells the musk of his skin and the hair oil that he uses.

“Thank you, Gordon.” Her eyes shine with her gratitude and she hopes for a moment that he will pull her to him.

Abruptly, the man coughs. He squeezes her hand, drops it to fall to her side. “We are all here for you, My Lady,” he returns formally. He moves to open the bottle of stout and the moment dissolves into the wind over the railing.

**Author's Note:**

> Create Order # 8 16 br>  
> For more on this story's creation, checkout [Appendix, Chapter 6](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6612037/chapters/18520750)


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